


Bend For Me

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [37]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Flexibility, Flexibility kink, Other, PWP, Panties, Panty Kink, Smut, Spike's a tease, Strippers & Strip Clubs, under cover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-17 09:30:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4661544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Panicked, the brunette spun around to see Sam standing there, shirtless with a pair of baggy sweats and boxers peeking out, holding a pair of lacy gray panties on one finger with a heated, questioning look.<br/>“I uh,” Spike stuttered, turning bright red, “I can explain.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [siennavie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennavie/gifts).



> ;)
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint, nor the characters. I do not make a profit from my writing, however it's still my writing so please don't repost anywhere. Thanks!

Spike struggled into Greg’s apartment, arms laden with over-filled grocery bags, and jumped briefly on one foot so he could kick the door shut behind him. Greg leapt off the couch, eager to help, and as his frame moved off the piece of furniture Spike caught sight of the laptop perched on the coffee table.

“Having fun over there?” He asked, handing over a couple bags to the negotiator with a thankful smile, and strode over to the countertops to set the provisions down. Greg followed, gait a little off—and Spike looked down, then back up, with a perceptive look.

“Isn’t it a little early in the day to be watching porn?”

“It’s six!” Sam defended, “and it’s for research!”

“Even worse,” Spike laughed, bending over and organizing the fridge, and could _feel_ Greg’s appreciative scrutiny. “It always ends up with me being sore for the next week.”

“I think if you tried this you’d be sore for more than that,” Ed teased, turning his attention away from the computer screen and leaning on the back of the couch to face the bomb tech.

Curious, Spike closed the fridge and walked over to the couch—resting his chin on the top of Ed’s head and motioning at the frozen video.

“Can I see?”

Sam rewound the footage, clicking play, and the two men on the screen started moving as the small living room lit up with moans and gasps—dramatic, theatrical. Spike watched as the man, pinned below his lover, threw his head back and gritted his teeth—his legs were forced up by his shoulders, spread wide. Skin smacked against skin, muscles seizing up and then relaxing in short bursts, and Spike shrugged; arousal stirred in his belly, his cock twitching in interest, but Sam, Ed and Greg had wide-blow pupils and their pants were tented.

The bomb tech rolled his eyes.

“Yeah? What’s so special about it?” He asked, playing innocent—he’d been with his partners long enough to know their kinks, had seen their heated looks when Spike stretched out his sore legs after kneeling next to a bomb for an hour—and wrapping his arms loosely around Ed’s neck.

“The…” Ed searched for words, “how he bends that far.”

“It’s not that hard,” The brunette snorted, walking back to finish putting away the food, and feeling the skeptical looks aimed at his back.

“Uh huh,” Greg raised an eyebrow, “I know you’re flexible, Spike, but I don’t think you’re _that_ flexible.”

“Really, now?” Spike asked, leaning against the countertop with a box of cereal in his hands, “You should call Jared, he’d strongly disagree with you.”

“Who the fuck is Jared?!” Sam barked, nearly falling off the sofa as Spike laughed and put away the box in his grasp. “Spike!”

“Ex,” The bomb tech explained with a grin, “We dated in college.”

Sam glowered, and Ed had a dark look on his face, but Spike simply plastered a Cheshire grin onto his already smug expression. Greg just looked pondering, eyes scrolling across Spike’s frame like it would unveil the answers.

“Anything else you were hiding from us?” Ed asked, and the bomb tech shrugged.

“I wasn’t hiding the fact I’m bendy or that I have exes,” He asserted, and then turned playful, “but yeah, I am.”

 

* * *

 

Spike was in his kitchen, at his own apartment, with Greg and Ed lounging at the kitchen table and Sam in the shower. Bustling around, and completely at ease, the bomb tech was trying to finish dinner. He’d kicked Greg out of the kitchen, a warning glare set on the negotiator, when the man had nearly let a pot boil over. Ed, naturally, had followed—poking fun at his lover, mirth visible by the lines under his eyes and near his mouth.

Hearing another set of footsteps, Spike twisted around to see Sam lingering by his other two lovers with a towel knotted around his hips.

“Hey, think I can borrow some clothes?” Sam asked, though the bomb tech was tempted to let the blonde walk around the house all evening in just the towel.

“Yeah, sure,” He relented, turning back to the food and ignoring the nagging sensation in his mind—like he’d forgotten something, something important. Time passed, and the fear in Spike’s gut didn’t go away—he didn’t know what was wrong, why he was feeling this way.

“You know, Spikey, I think you’d look better in pastels. Maybe rose.”

Panicked, the brunette spun around to see Sam standing there, shirtless with a pair of baggy sweats and boxers peeking out, holding a pair of lacy gray panties on one finger with a heated, questioning look.

“I uh,” Spike stuttered, turning bright red, “I can explain.”

“Why you’ve got a drawer full of panties?” Sam cooed, a smirk splayed lazily over his face, “And here I thought you were a boxers kind of guy.”

“I can’t like both?” Spike asked, and regretted it immediately when all three men’s gazes heated up. “I mean—,”

“Oh, I think we know what you mean,” Greg smiled, reassuringly, and Spike’s stomach loosened from its taut state. “And trust me, Spike, we’ve got absolutely _no_ problem with it.”

“Will you wear them for us?” Ed asked, jaw set in a sinister line, “Only if you want to, though.”

“Promise you won’t laugh?” Spike asked, shyly, and turned off the stove as a second thought.

“I promise we won’t laugh,” Sam told him firmly, “can’t promise about not moaning, though.”

A blush staining him pink, the bomb tech padded over and took the scrap of lacy fabric contemplatively. Shucking his boxers, leaving his bare, he bent over and slipped the soft panties up his legs—making sure the fabric laid flat, and covered all the bits it should.

The gray material rested over his cock, straining the fabric, leaving nothing to the imagination and the white lacing on the edges clung to his thighs and hips. Spike could feel the line of the panties resting softly over his ass, hardly covering it, with corset-esque weaving trailing down the middle, leaving even _less_ to the imagination.

A cat call made him blush harder, standing in the kitchen with just a shirt while his legs were bare and his privates were only hidden by the flimsy panties.

“Damn, Spike,” Ed whistled, “that’s a good look for you.”

“—I vote no more boxers.” Sam spoke up, once he found his voice. Spike crossed his arms across his chest, fidgeting, and toyed with the thin lace subconsciously.

“I’m not wearing panties to work,” the bomb tech squawked, turning back to the food and reaching for the plates, “No chance. _Non._ ”

“That’s probably a good thing,” Greg laughed, “I’m not sure any of us could focus knowing that you were.”

“Hey!” the bomb tech defended himself, “I could focus just fine.”

“It’s not you I was worried about,” Greg winked, “I’m more concerned about Sam over there—who’s catching flies and drooling.”

The blonde snapped his jaw closed, still focused in on Spike, and shrugged.

“Can’t blame me, boss.”

“No,” Greg smirked at Spike, “I can’t.”

“So is this what you were talking about when you said you were hiding something?” the bald sniper questioned, and Spike nodded.

“I still don’t believe you’re that flexible,” Sam laughed, but Spike shrugged and got a dangerous glint in his expression.

Feeling a little too frisky for his own good, the bomb tech spread his feet and slid to the floor—his legs splayed out on either side of him—in a perfect split. It made his inner thighs twinge, because he hadn’t stretched well first, and his panties tickled the delicate flesh between his legs.

Arching his back _just_ enough, Spike planted his hands on the floor before him and looked up—eyes challenging—before stretching forward and nearly pressing his chest onto the cold linoleum.

The brunette pushed his torso up just enough so he could rest on his elbows and peer up through his eyelashes, lips staying in an innocent smile the whole time. His legs burned wonderfully, just enough to heat his blood, and the satin against his cock didn’t help the state he was in.

“Still don’t—?” Spike’s question was cut off as he was dragged off the floor, legs snapping together automatically, and thrown over Sam’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry.

“Yeah, I believe you, buddy. And let me tell you, you’re _definitely_ going to be sore for more than a couple days.”

He felt a hand slap his cheek, making the fabric of his panties ride up even further, and tried not to giggle as the bedroom door closed behind them.


	2. Chapter 2

Standing in the dressing room, peering at the flimsy fabric in his hands, Spike tried to not let out a full-body sigh. Why did he have to go undercover? And why did the subject have to practically live in this—this _strip club_? A _gay_ strip club?

Where the dress code was pretty much women’s clothing; the bomb tech hated that, detested the connotation, but ignored the heavy feeling it left in his gut—guilt, because he wanted nothing more than to throw on the outfit, feel the silk against his skin; annoyed, because he hated being a stereotype. Heels, panties, even a _damned corset_ ; it was all on the table before him, waiting to be donned and flaunted in front of the greasy-eyed men in this seedy establishment.

Pulling off his normal clothes, feeling more naked than he ever had before, Spike pulled the pale pink panties up his legs, ignoring the fact that the back was only translucent, transparent white lace—leaving so little to the imagination that it wasn’t enough funny. The sides, pulled taught over his hips, weren’t even fabric—it was more string than anything else; a braided, twisted golden cord.

Tightening the corset over his ribs was far more work than he thought, and the heavy material clung to him without mercy—it was dark gray, dotted with bright red lines, and the ribbon on the back was deep crimson. Flat against his chest, the corset pushed at his skin until his waist looked tiny and his hips seemed wider.

The woman at his back, helping him loop the ribbon into a delicate bow, offered to help him with the high heels but Spike refused.

He was a grown man, god damn it.

He could put on his own heels.

Slipping them on with ease, the bomb tech cursed the inventor of women’s shoes—towering six inches taller, leg muscles coiled from the effort of staying upright and not swaying like some tree in a hurricane, Spike looked at himself in the mirror while schooling his face out of frustration and into over exaggerated lust.

The shoes, all black, fit perfectly—which was terrifying—but it didn’t make it any less infuriating to tread around in. His legs ached, forced to balance in a way he’d never really thought he’d ever need to, and his feet were going to kill him come morning.

Once the dressing room was empty, Spike pulled out a small camera from his backpack and hooked it onto the top edge of his corset—hidden in the looping lace—just like Jules had showed him how. Knowing the team was watching, waiting until Spike got their subject isolated in the back of the club, the bomb tech stood—letting every ounce of anger show—in front of the mirror with his middle finger up.

Then, with a flourish of lace—oh my God so much lace; and Spike had thought _he_ had an addiction to the stuff—the brunette walked out of the room with a measured swing of his hips.

Pulsing with heavy music, a deep beat that shocked his heart into a new rhythm, the club was awash with pale, colorful light. Dark floors, dark walls, and impossibly darker eyes was all Spike could see—the only bright things in the room was the silver poles set up on platforms around the strip club.

His target, their subject, was sitting in a group—and his eyes were drawn immediately to Spike, a slow curl of his lips showing his appreciation. A crooked finger beckoned the bomb tech over, and Spike sauntered over with a predatory smile.

With a showing of flexibility, the brunette placed one foot on the raise platform and stepped up—watching as the subject’s eyes darted between his split legs then roved back up his body.

There were mirrors all over the room, bright and sparkling, so Spike caught his reflection as he curled around the silver pole. Glimpses of his head thrown back, spine arched, silk drawn firm over his flesh. Glimpses that Spike knew his partners were drinking in gluttonously.

Sinking down towards the ground, back flush against the stripper pole, arms above his head, knees wide open for balance—that’s when Spike knew that he had the subject snared in his web. The man’s eyes were hungry, pupils wide, and he was doing nothing to hide the tenting of his dress pants.

“How about a private show?” the subject purred, slipping a bill—Spike didn’t want to try and read the number—so it stuck out of the bomb tech’s panties.

With a smirk, Spike growled back his reply before sliding off of the stage—motions easy and fluid—and reaching his arm out and slipping his fingers teasingly around the man’s wrist before pulling him out of the chair. They strolled towards the back of the strip club, towards the rooms—towards the _back exit_. The door to the back of the club closed behind him, and Spike discretely locked it—no need having the subject’s body guards coming to ruin the operation.

Just as Spike reached the private area, angling himself so the camera could see the back door, the fire alarm went off with a shriek and the air was filled with commands from the SRU.

Pushing the subject towards his team, Spike balanced in his heels and gratefully took the blanket Ed tossed towards him. Wrapping it around himself like a cape, it barely covered the panties—let alone his bare legs.

“Next time Wordy’s going undercover,” Spike spoke up, following them to the SUVs, while the older man spluttered and Sam tried to keep from falling over in his laughter.

 

* * *

 

“That was a good look for you,” Greg told Spike honestly, when they arrived back at the negotiator’s apartment after an awkward-as-hell briefing, “You looked like you were in your element.”

“Are you saying I act like a stripper?” Spike asked, affronted, as he crawled into bed and winced at the aches in his legs. Sam immediately caught on, sitting up from where he’d been laying on his side, and rubbed his thumbs over the sore muscles. The bomb tech patted him on the back, moaning his thanks.

“No,” Ed shook his head, shucking his own clothing, “just that you knew how attractive you were. You knew all the eyes were on you,” a growl slipped in, “because you knew how sexy you looked. You looked powerful and self-confident.”

“Uh huh,” Spike yawned, already falling asleep under Sam’s ministrations, “that’s nice.”

Greg just snorted and shook his head.

 

* * *

 

Shifting his weight back and forth, Spike looked at the bag—that he’d just pulled out from under the sink—sitting, innocently, on the bathroom counter. The Victoria’s Secret logo, along with some details about a Valentine’s Day sale, was plastered across the material.

Inside was a sea of fabric, a mess of colors—blue and gray and black, the most gender neutral colors they had—and three items. Pulling them out, one by one, Spike laid them before him and shoved the bag back under the sink.

The panties went on first, dark blue, and sat against his skin snugly. There was no back, just intricate webbing of ribbon that showed off _everything_. Then there were the stockings, and it took some hopping around on one foot to get them on. But they slid up, the thick band tight around his upper thigh, and stood out against his skin with a dark gray hue.

Then, the true challenge; the corset.

Adjusting it so it sat over his torso, Spike weaved the ribbon into the holes before turning it so it sat properly—lacing at the back—and tightening it with an uncomfortable twisting of his arms.

Jerking the ribbon into a bow, the bomb tech peered at the bathroom mirror before nodding and strutting out—towards his partners who were lounging in the couch.

It was easier without heels, that was for sure—and quieter, too.

“What do you think?” Spike asked, walking into view and standing—arms on his hips, legs shoulder-width apart—before Greg, Ed and Sam.

They didn’t respond, eyes wide and shocked.

“I _said_ ,” Spike repeated, “What do you—,”

With a yelp, Spike was cut off; the bomb tech was dragged into Ed’s lap, the man’s larger hands firmly holding onto his ass.

“Bedroom.” Greg nodded at Sam’s dazed word, and stood from the couch—pulling Spike from Ed’s lap and throwing the bomb tech over his shoulder. Spike felt more like a ragdoll than a world-class bomb technician.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” Spike pouted, “I put in all this effort and you—”

“You look gorgeous, sexy, and like you’re about to get fucked into the mattress,” Ed snapped, playfully and heated, as he trailed behind Greg.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, then,” the bomb tech shrugged, then barked out an outraged “ _HEY!”_ when he was thrown onto the bed.

Fingers swiftly prepped him, leaving a light burn that made arousal prickle in his belly, while another hand held the delicate material of his panties out of the way. Lube smeared on the satin, leaving it crumpled and clumped, and somehow made Spike look even more ravished—laying there, on his back, legs spread open with gray stockings hugging every curve of his legs, and the corset rising and falling with every breath.

Greg slid against him, first, and pressed his chest against the bomb tech’s back as they laid on their sides—and Sam curled up in front of Spike, running soft hands through his lover’s softer hair, and biting at his lips until the brunette’s rose-colored skin was cherry red.

One of Sam’s hands curled behind Spike’s knee, pushing it up towards the bomb tech’s chest, as Greg guided himself in—and Sam swallowed Spike’s groan, soothingly squeezing the younger man’s leg.

Ed leaned against the headboard, neon pale-blue eyes darkening as he watched.

“You always look stunning, buddy,” Sam grinned, and Greg just pressed his forehead into the bomb tech’s shoulder as he held onto one pale hip and breathed hard, “I’m not sure how you managed to get even more good-looking.”

“Aw,” Spike grated out, huffing with each thrust into him, and tangled his hands into the blonde’s hair as he squeezed his eyes shut. “thanks, Samtastic.”

A particularly harsh snap of Greg’s pelvis knocked the air out of the brunette, and one of his hands unraveled from Sam’s hair to claw at Greg’s ass and lower back—nails digging in, leaving lines that stung.

The corset was constricting, uncomfortably firm, against his ribs—just enough that he couldn’t struggle much—couldn’t writhe or contort, couldn’t arch his back or bend. It was maddening, not being as mobile as he wanted to, but only made Sam and Ed’s grins wider when they realized that Spike was pretty much at their mercy.

Bunching up and sliding lower, Spike felt the velvet-smooth stockings slip down his legs and shivered at the sensation—making Greg’s breath and hips hitch, the negotiator spilling inside of him with a choked gasp of Spike’s name.

“This is going to be a long Valentine’s Day, isn’t it?” the bomb tech asked, coming down from his high and catching his breath as Sam toyed with the lace covering his body.

“Yeah,” Ed laughed, lightly pushing the still-beaming Greg out of the way and taking the negotiator’s spot, “it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Haha I'm a tease. :P


End file.
